


Stiles Smells, Pass it on

by theplacewhere



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Mates, Not really though, Scent Kink, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplacewhere/pseuds/theplacewhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't until Cora smelled Stiles in his bathroom that things got really weird.</p><p>Based on <a href="http://perseused.tumblr.com/post/56566859479/why-do-you-think-the-hales-trust-stiles-so-much-like">this</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stiles Smells, Pass it on

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw [this](http://perseused.tumblr.com/post/56566859479/why-do-you-think-the-hales-trust-stiles-so-much-like) on tumblr and it made me chuckle, and then next thing I knew I had written over 5000 words of crack Stiles-is-Hale-catnip fic.
> 
> For those of you wanting clarification on the mates thing, it's not the tropey kind. It's more like the human, your pheromones smell compatible with my pheromones sort of thing.
> 
> Come bug me on [tumblr](http://glowcloudforprez.tumblr.com).

It wasn't until Cora smelled Stiles in his bathroom that things got really weird. Okay, nix that, Stiles' best friend was a werewolf, things had been weird for a long time. But with the smelling thing, he didn't really notice until Cora had him backed up against his sink and he was leaning as far away from her as possible while she buried her nose in his - very sweaty - neck.

"Umm, Cora?" Stiles poked her in the shoulder, wondering if she was feral again or playing some sort of practical joke or had just finally lost her mind from stress like every other Hale. He prodded her a few times, but, other than a deep noise in the back of her throat that sounded way too close to a growl for Stiles to be completely comfortable, she didn't respond.

All in all, it wasn't the worst situation Stiles had been in with a Hale by far - for that, see being kidnapped by Peter or holding up Derek's heavy ass in a pool for two hours. The sink was starting to dig into Stiles' back though, and he was really gross from cross country practice. He had been looking forward to a long, warm, muscle-relaxing shower ever since Scott had tried to hip check him and sent him flying into the bushes on the side of the running path. At the beginning of practice. Three hours ago.

So Cora was nice and everything, and Stiles thought she was probably the most sane and/or willing to tolerate his presence of all the Hale's, but the only clothing he currently had on a pair of boxer briefs and his neck was twisted in a way that no neck should ever twist. He tried to poke Cora again, this time on the squishy part of her cheek.

"Seriously, Cora, could you not? This isn't a great time for... whatever it is you're doing. Also, I'm fairly certain consent is a very important component of this, uh, sort of thing? I don't really know what this is, actually, but I’m pretty should you should get my permission before doing it. Cora?"

Cora snuffled into Stiles' shoulder some more, and he carefully brought his hand up to pat her head. He couldn't feel any fangs on his neck or claws where Cora was clutching his arms, so he didn't think his life was in immediate danger. With Stiles' hand on Cora's head, he could smell himself even more, and it was disgusting. Cora, however, seemed to disagree, because she moved away from his neck and stuck her nose into his armpit. At that point, even though this was obviously a spell or demonic possession or a spiral into insanity, Stiles couldn't help it - he started laughing.

He was standing in his bathroom, drenched in sweat and covered in grass clippings and dirt, while his best friend's frenemy's sister (all of whom were werewolves) stuck her nose into the ticklish part of Stiles' nasty armpit like she was auditioning for a febreze commercial.

"Okay," Stiles managed to spit out between laughs, "whenever this crazy train you're on comes to a halt, just let me know so I can take my shower and then make fun of you forever."

It was another half hour of Cora nuzzling into Stiles' armpit and neck and - almost, for one very stressful moment - his crotch, before Cora was herself again, if a little glazed over. Ten minutes later, she was rushing out of the house blushing like crazy, throwing out apologies and oh my god's over her shoulder.

The thing was, werewolves did kind of seem to smell Stiles a lot. Well, not Scott, but then that was Scott. Scott was like his brother, and brothers didn't smell each other no matter how rank one of them was. It was like the bro code or something. He didn't remember Boyd, Erica, or Isaac ever giving a good sniff, but he hadn't spent all that much time around them. Peter, though, Peter definitely smelled him more than was usual. If there could be a usual for that sort of thing. Derek too, though he was slightly less creepy than Peter about it.

As he always did when he encountered something he didn't understand, Stiles turned to research. Cora was unavailable for comment, which felt intentional. At least, Stiles was pretty sure she used Derek's early warning alarm to escape the loft whenever he came to visit, if Derek's stilted excuses and heartfelt glares were any indication.

The one time Stiles had come by to check on Cora and found just Peter in the loft, he had gotten the hell out of there as quick as he could - Stiles was way too smart to become a face on the back of a milk carton, and the way Peter just burst into maniacal laughter upon seeing Stiles was too disturbing by half.

Unable to locate his primary source, Stiles found a backup.

"Will you smell me?" All right, maybe Stiles' approach could have been a little more subtle. It was Scott, though. Scott already knew he was weird. The face Scott made seemed design to reiterate that fact.

"Are you still stuck on that thing with Cora? Dude, it's been a week, and we have bigger concerns. Alpha pack, Darach, mortal peril, that kind of thing?"

Scott went back to the map of Beacon Hills he and Stiles had been pouring over. Well, looking at. Glancing at, on commercial breaks of the terrible sci-fi movie Stiles had put on TV when Scott came to his door to research looking about as good as that time he’d been mortally injured on a school bus. Scott was under a lot of stress, and it was Stiles' duty as best friend to make sure he occasionally took a break to eat skittles and twizzlers and watch a giant mutated shark-fly terrorize acting class dropouts.

"Well, this could be related to that. Maybe I smell like a sacrifice. Or maybe I'm like werewolf catnip, and could be used to lure in the Alpha Pack. Come on, Scott, just smell me."

Stiles stuck his wrist under Scott's nose, but Scott and his stupid preternatural powers just shoved Stiles back over to his side of the bed. Now sprawled out on his side, Stiles tried to put his leg in Scott's face. Somehow this ended up with Scott pinning him down with his face smooshed into the pillows like they were 12 again and convinced they were going to become pro wrestlers, with costumes made from Stiles' mom's aprons and Scott’s mom’s scrub hats. This was nothing like that, though, since neither of them had actually ever managed to win their wrestling matches, and they would usually just telegraph some punches and karate kicks before deciding to be NASCAR drivers or bakers or something.

"OK, one," said Scott, not even winded from holding Stiles down. "You are not allowed to use yourself as bait for the alphas or anything else, no matter what you smell like. Two, I smell you all the time, dude. It's kind of unavoidable, we spend a lot of time together. I've never noticed you being like, catnip, and you don't smell any different than usual. Now please stop trying to assault me with your limbs. It's weird." Scott stuck out his tongue and jumped off Stiles, dramatically biting into a twizzler for emphasis.

"You're weird," Stiles shot back. He wasn't up to his usual standards of comebacks; this smell thing was really getting to him. Stiles let out an exaggerated groan when he sat up, clutching at his back where Scott had kneed him. Scott ignored him, the jerk. Stiles grabbed his laptop off the desk while Scott focused on the movie. It was time to start phase two of research: consult Google. Searching for werewolf related phenomenon was mostly useless (and occasionally not appropriate for Stiles' age group), but he didn't have a whole lot of choice if his primary sources weren't going to be helpful.

As Stiles settled back into his nest of pillows, Scott hummed under his breath and bumped their shoulders together. He was munching on skittles now, his lips stained a weird purple red and a pile of the green ones he wouldn't eat on the bed beside him. He already looked better than he had in weeks. His shoulders weren't slumped, his eyes were focused, and he didn't look like he was in pain.

Well, now he did, but Stiles was pretty sure that was sympathy for supporting character #2, who had just been eaten by the sharkfly (flyshark? flark?) on screen. Stiles settled into the pillows and put his laptop off to the side. Research could probably wait until morning, and he really wanted to see how the overly spray-tanned protagonist was going to defeat the flark.

The plot of the flark movie turned out to be more engrossing then Stiles suspected it would be, and over the next few days every supernatural situation they had been barely managing to balance went completely crazy. In the chaos of sacrifices and alphas and trying to make sure his dad didn't have a heart attack, Stiles kind of forgot about the whole Cora-smelled-me-in-the-bathroom thing. At least, until Peter brought it back up in the most uncomfortable way possible.

"No. This is not OK. Bad touch. Peter, no." Peter, chest ripped to bloody shreds and head buried in Stiles' armpit, didn't seem to even hear him.  As soon as they had made it through the door to Derek's loft, Stiles running and Peter stumbling behind him, Peter's eyes had gone crazier than usual and he had latched onto Stiles like a parasite.

Stiles was almost heaving from fear and exertion, but it would totally serve Peter right to be thrown up on after everything he did. In fact, being touched by Peter made Stiles want to throw up even more. His skin felt itchy and dirty with Peter touching him, and his arms were pinned to his sides by this weird facsimile of a hug so he couldn't even slap Peter until he moved.

"Peter, I'm serious, I will pour mountain ash down your throat if you don't move now. I'll do it, you know I will. Deaton will totally give me some if I tell him what it’s for."

That seemed to be enough motivation for Peter to detach himself from Stiles. His fingers trailed over Stiles' ribs, which felt like running nails down a chalkboard sounded. Peter's eyes were faraway and watery, almost like he was high, which made his go-to sarcastic smirk even creepier than usual. The claw marks from the alphas were still visible on his chest, though he looked about 100% better than he had just a few minutes ago.

"You will never do that again, is that clear?" Stiles put on his most intimidating face, which may not have involved fangs or glowing eyes but still managed to scare every werewolf he knew. Peter just smiled. No, grinned. Like he was happy. It was disconcerting.

"You will never do that again," repeated Stiles, reaching into his pocket and coming back with a handful of mountain ash. "Is. That. Clear." Peter's smile dimmed and his face went blank. He nodded, which was enough for Stiles.

Channeling the grace and poise he remembered his mom having when she stalked away after winning an argument, Stiles left the loft and walked the ten blocks to where he had been forced to abandon his car when Scott had called him ranting about alphas. His dad would have been appalled at him walking alone at night through the not-so-great part of town Derek lived in, but no way in hell was he asking Peter to walk him there or waiting alone with Peter in the loft until somebody else got back. Honestly, he was probably safer getting mugged than being anywhere near Peter.

 

"This has officially gone too far," said Stiles.

The words came out muffled from where his face was buried in Derek's shoulder. Derek, for his part, only snuffled into Stiles' neck some more. Stiles couldn’t decide whether to swat at him or cuddle him closer. On the one hand, Stiles was kneeling in about a decade’s worth of dirt on the floor of an abandoned warehouse, covered in various liquids and semi-solids he didn’t even want to think about. He just wanted to go home, shower, and sleep for about three months. On the other hand, he was pretty sure those were tears he felt on his neck.

Stiles could see, just barely, beyond Derek's massive (and definitely not comforting or attractive) body. Scott was standing there, covered in blood (both his own and others), scratching at his neck and shifting from foot to foot like he wasn't sure whether to interfere or not. Beside him, Cora was wincing sympathetically, though whether for Stiles or Derek or herself Stiles wasn't sure. Allison, coming down from her sniper’s nest, looked like she hadn’t decided yet whether or not to point her bow at Derek or put it away.

When Stiles had used himself as bait for the alphas, he had expected a combo hug/scolding from Scott, maybe a pat on the shoulder from Allison, and an irritated sigh and a smack to the back of the head from Lydia. He had expected Derek to save him, because that was their thing (and he steadfastly refused to think about what might happen if no one saved him, because that way laid madness).

He had definitely not expected Derek to save him, then follow it up with a bone crushing hug and going on 20 minutes of smelling his neck while checking and re-checking him for injuries. Although, considering his recent interactions with Hales, Stiles probably shouldn’t have been so surprised.

"Hey, Derek, buddy?" Stiles tried to make his voice soothing, but even to his own ears it sounded more confused. "I'm OK, Derek. Everybody's OK." Stiles reached up to pat Derek on the head, wincing when he felt the blood and other assorted viscera in Derek's hair. That was now coating his hand, too. Awesome.

Derek showed no signs of moving, even as Stiles let out a stream of soothing words and shushing noises. Eventually, Stiles lost his patience.

"Derek, let go. Now. I'm soaked in blood and guts and other things I don't want to think about, I faced mortal peril tonight, and my legs are sore from kneeling on the ground so long. So help me, Derek, if you don't get your shit together and back the hell off right now, I'm going to roast your furry ass like a marshmallow." Scott and Cora both winced, and Stiles thought about what he was saying.

"Shit, sorry, that was insensitive. No one's roasting anyth- you know what, let's just forget about that. The hugging is fine. The smelling is still creepy and inexplicable, but I feel guilty now, so-"

Derek made a noise halfway between a growl and a purr, briefly leaning in even closer to Stiles (which didn't really seem possible, considering how entangled they were) and then taking two steps back.

For a while, no one moved or spoke. Allison idly played with one of her arrows, simply shrugging when Stiles mouthed, "what the hell," at her. After several painful minutes of everyone staring off into different corners of the warehouse, Cora cleared her throat.

"I think it's past my bed time. Derek, take me home." She smiled at Stiles as she led Derek out with a hand on his arm, which marked the first time she had made eye contact with Stiles since the bathroom incident. Apparently all her reticence had now transferred to Derek, who had his head down and seemed to be blushing.

"So," said Allison, over the sound of Derek's car starting, "that was weird."

"Agreed," said Scott, nodding vigorously.

"Honestly, it's weird how not weird that is for me these days. A Hale non-consensually smelling me for a long period of time? Must be Tuesday." Stiles stuck a finger out at Scott, accusing. "I told you the smell thing was probably important." Scott's eyes briefly flashed amber, and his hands curled into fists.

"And I told you not to use yourself as bait for the alpha pack, under any circumstances." Stiles' finger fell back down to his side, deflated.

"Umm, about that," said Stiles, wishing that he could have avoided this part of the conversation. "I'm sorry?" And Stiles once again had a werewolf clutching at him like a safety blanket.

"Scott, I swear to God, if you're scenting me-"

"Not scenting, dude. Hugging." Well, that was acceptable. It was an undisputed truth of life that Scott McCall was the best hugger in all of California. At least, according to Stiles and Mrs. McCall. Allison would probably agree too.

Stiles wrapped his arms, still stuck to his sides in shock, around Scott's torso. It was nice to hug someone without worrying whether they were going to stick their nose in your armpit.

"I'm still mad at you," said Scott, into Stiles' shoulder.

"Well I'm still mad at you for breaking my Hulk action figure when we were seven, so I guess we're even." Allison snorted from where she was gathering her duffel bag full of hunter gear in the corner.

“Stiles,” whined Scott, punching him in the shoulder as he pulled away from the hug.

“It was a good plan! I had backup!”

“Leave me out of this,” said Allison. She looked all fierce hunter-girl with her black clothes and her bow in hand, but she broke character and smiled when Stiles stuck his tongue out at her.

“Well now I’m mad at both of you,” said Scott. He still insisted on making sure Stiles and Allison both got home safe, though, so Stiles didn’t worry too much about it.

 

In the end, it was Chris Argent of all people who helped Stiles figure it out.

“Stiles, stop laughing.” Chris face was getting more and more pinched, which Stiles should probably have been worrying about because the man was always armed. He couldn’t stop laughing, though. He physically could not do it, even with Chris practically shooting lasers out of his eyes and everyone else in the coffee shop staring at them.

“So you’re saying- you’re basically saying- I’m sorry, I just. Just give me a second.” Stiles’ head was actually getting a little fuzzy from lack of oxygen, he had been laughing so long. Chris’ right hand was twitching toward the gun Stiles knew he kept strapped to his back. There were tears streaming from Stiles’ eyes, and a slightly manic tone to his laughter.

It took a valiant effort, but Stiles pulled himself together. Chris looked like he was at the end of his rope, and Stiles really didn't want Allison to have to find out her dad was trying to kill her friends again.

"Sorry," said Stiles, finally able to keep the laughter down. "It's just that when you left me a voicemail asking to meet in a public place on neutral territory two towns away from Beacon Hills, I kind of thought you were going to kill me or pass on clandestine information or something. Not tell me I'm werewolf catnip."

The laughter bubbled up again in Stiles' chest, and Chris sighed. The girl working behind the counter at the coffee shop looked like she was about to ask them to leave or call the police (which thankfully at least wouldn't be Stiles' father in this county), so Stiles tried to wave a reassuring hand over to her and worked to get himself back together again.

"One, that's not what I said," said Chris. "Two, security is important. Even seemingly inconsequential information can be used against you by your enemies. You have a lot of enemies, Stiles."

Well, that sobered Stiles right up. Chris suddenly looked different, face more lined and eyes sharper. He looked less like the harmless dad he tried to be and more like the hunter he was. It was comforting, in a way, to know that Stiles wasn't the only human in Beacon Hills constantly wearing a mask because of werewolves.

“Yeah," said Stiles, fidgeting with the napkin on the table. Chris sighed again, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I just want you to take this seriously. If the Hales are all reacting to you the way Allison said they are, that means you smell like a compatible mate. If anyone who wanted to hurt one of the Hales were to figure that out, they might come after you. Also," Chris hesitated, and Stiles got the impression that a less controlled person might have been blushing. "If you're ever around them when they're hurt or you're particularly- if you smell- you know-"

"I know," said Stiles, wincing on Chris' behalf because this whole conversation was just getting painful.

“And, also, you don’t ever have to feel- I mean, just because you smell compatible to them doesn’t mean you have to, or that you’re obligated to-” Stiles felt his eyes pop out of his head when he realized what Chris was getting at. His arms moved without his brain’s permission, like they were trying to physically shove Chris’ words back into his mouth. All they actually managed to do was knock a stack of napkins onto the floor.

"Trust me,” said Stiles, “I know. My dad and I had that talk when I was eight and told him I was in love with Lydia Martin, and then again at puberty. The intent behind it was a little different then, but the basic ideas are the same. And I will make it clear to any and all werewolves that no matter what I smell like, no one is allowed to touch anyone else without their consent. And anyone who breaks that rule gets a mistletoe facial and a wolf's bane enema."

From Chris' reaction, that may have been too much information to share with his friend's dad, but Stiles was so far beyond caring about that right now. An awkward silence descended, the likes of which could only exist between two people who both shared and kept from each other too many secrets to count.

"Anyway," said Stiles, unable to resist breaking the silence, "thanks for telling me. Really, it probably would have taken me forever to get that out of Derek." Chris nodded, but didn't say anything, and didn't protest when Stiles practically ran out of the shop without saying goodbye.

 

Stiles took a long time to consider what he should do with this new information. For a week or so he just watched the way the Hales acted around him. It wasn’t like he thought Chris had any particular reason to lie to him, but that didn’t mean he trusted the guy, either.

It was there though, when you were looking for it. Cora stood closer to him than she would to anyone else, and she occasionally gifted him with one of her genuine smiles. Peter just straight up sniffed the air when Stiles was around, like the creepy zombie werewolf he was.

Derek was more subtle about it, or maybe Stiles had just been exposed to his behavior for longer. He was, in typical Derek fashion, avoiding Stiles after the thing in the warehouse. Stiles was grateful as first, since Derek’s inability to face him gave Stiles time to decide what he wanted to do with this new information. It took Stiles two days and one jerk-off session to decide that, hey, maybe he wasn’t so straight and yes, definitely, he would like to be having sex with Derek. Once Stiles came to that conclusion it didn’t take long before he got bored of waiting around for Derek to show up again.

“Hey Derek, it’s Stiles. Shockingly, you’re still not answering when I call. What if this was an emergency Derek? What if I was dying? Or kidnapped? Or locked my keys in my car? You would feel totally shitty if I died or had to pay AAA to come unlock my car for me, admit it.

“Anyway, I’m not dying, just in case you’re wondering. I am tired of all this broody avoidy crap though, so I’m giving you five hours to call me back or I’m telling my dad I think that scary criminal Derek Hale is following me home from school every day. I know what you’re thinking right now: he won’t do it. And maybe you’re right, Derek, maybe you’re right. But maybe you’re wrong, and tomorrow morning you’re going to wake up to a knock on the door from your friendly neighborhood sheriff’s department. So call me, because this is getting ridiculous.”

Stiles sat down at his desk and put the phone next to him, satisfied that when Derek recovered from the blood vessel that voicemail would pop in his brain he’d call Stiles back. These were the moments when Stiles appreciated being such a wild card that Derek  couldn’t be 100% certain he was bluffing about having Derek arrested for stalking. To be fair, Stiles wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t do it if he got pissed off enough. At least if Derek got arrested Stiles would be able to find him and confront him somewhere he couldn’t run away.

Stiles decided to take advantage of the free time and relative lack of life-threatening emergencies to catch up on homework. He dug through the empty energy drink cans and discarded Reese's wrappers on his desk to get to his Chemistry textbook. With Harris gone he didn't have to worry about failing every test out of spite, but he hadn't studied for that class in so long his book had actually accumulated a layer of dust and spilled Red Bull over the top of it.

Stiles hadn't struggled through more than five pages on balancing equations when his phone went off. It was Derek, but he wasn't calling. It was just a text that said, _loft 20 min_ , which either meant Derek had bought Stiles' threat or the forces of darkness were killing people again. Derek really needed to work on his communication skills.

When Stiles got to the loft there was no hum of adrenaline in the air or werewolf war council at the table, so he figured they were still in a holding pattern as far as all their local villains went. Derek was standing by the wall of windows, hands clasped behind him and head down like he was about to face a firing squad. The lights were off, as usual, either because the electricity in the building was shoddy or Derek was a dramatic fucker.

For a long moment Stiles and Derek just stared at each other. Derek's face was set and he was clenched up so tense Stiles could feel his own muscles getting sore in sympathy. It was hard to believe this was the same guy who had sobbed into Stiles' neck two weeks ago because he had been worried about him.

Derek was backlit by the light from outside the windows, the artificial flow of streetlights and neon signs. His face was mostly hidden in shadow. Stiles thought he kind of looked like Batman, hunched over like he was.

"So," said Stiles, when the silence became too much for him, "this whole compatible mate thing. Does it mean you're going to court me? Do I need to watch out for dead animals on my porch?"

Stiles chuckled at his own (very funny, in his opinion) joke, but Derek, if possible, froze even more.

"What," asked Derek, flat inflection making it sound less like a question and more like a threat. Derek had a natural talent for making poor, innocent words into weapons. Stiles was going to find out how he did that one day.

"Come on, Derek, you haven't exactly been great at keeping it a secret. It's gotten to the point where I expect anyone with the last name Hale to stick their nose in my armpit. I smell good. You just can't help yourself. Which is weird, by the way, and if Peter ever touches me again I'll sick Lydia on him. But it's cool, you know, I understand. You're not the first person to find me irresistible."

Derek snorted, and Stiles smiled. It was the first honest reaction he'd gotten from Derek in a long time. Stiles was a little surprised to find that he had actually missed Derek these last few weeks. Derek moved out of the shadows and closer to Stiles, lifting his head high enough to make brief eye contact. When Derek looked away to examine the baseboard, Stiles was pretty sure he saw a faint blush on Derek’s cheeks. He had to stop himself from cooing.

"How did you find out?" asked Derek. He still wasn't really looking at Stiles, but he seemed at least 50% less murderous so Stiles was counting it as a win.

"Chris Argent called a secret meeting in a Starbucks 100 miles away to tell me I was Hale catnip." Derek smiled at that. It was small and disappeared almost as soon as it showed up, but it was a smile and Derek didn't give those out much. Stiles was honestly surprised he hadn't realized earlier about the whole compatible mates thing.

"Chris Argent called you to a secret meeting in a Starbucks?" Derek lifted one eyebrow, back on familiar territory.

"Yeah. Trust me, it was even weirder than it sounds. He bought me a frappuccino."

"A frappuccino?"

"Mocha flavored, with extra whipped cream and sprinkles."

“How do you even drink those?” asked Derek, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t, usually, but Mr. Argent said he was buying and it was the most expensive thing on the menu.”

"You’re a terrible person," said Derek, but he was smiling.

Somehow they had drifted closer to each other while they were talking, and now Stiles was almost close enough to touch Derek. If he reached out a hand he could feel the calluses on Derek's palm, or the soft cotton of his shirt, or the stubble on his cheek. Stiles wanted to touch that stubble. He hadn't stopped laughing long enough to really consider what compatible mates meant, just because it sounded so ridiculous, but he was starting to think that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.

"Hey Derek," said Stiles, shocked to realize his face was only a few inches from Derek's.

"Yeah?" Stiles could feel Derek's breath on his lips, could almost taste him.

"Why did you cry in the warehouse? When you thought I was hurt?"

Derek rolled his eyes, reaching a hand up to cup Stiles cheek.

"Don't be an idiot," said Derek, leaning in.

Stiles would like the record to state that he had been kissed before. There was Heather, when he was five. Then Taylor Patel at Scott's birthday party when he was 14. Then there was Heather again, just a few short weeks ago. So Stiles may not have had an extensive sexual history, but he knew how to kiss.

But apparently there was knowing how to kiss, and then there was kissing like Derek Hale. Derek was everywhere. Biting at Stiles' lip, licking into his mouth, leaning down to suck on this patch of skin where Stiles' neck met his shoulder. Derek kissed like he had been waiting for it for years, which thinking back, maybe he had been. By the time Stiles' head started spinning enough he had to pull away to breathe he was lying down on Derek's bed with Derek on top of him. Stiles panted into the air between him and Derek and tried to force his brain back online.

Stiles sort of felt like a romance heroine about to be deflowered. He was shockingly OK with that comparison, especially when Derek somehow got them both undressed and started kissing and licking his way down Stiles' torso.

Later, after Stiles had gotten his first blowjob and learned what Derek looked like when he came, he let himself fall back on the bed, dragging Derek with him. Derek let his head fall into the crook of Stiles' neck, just breathing Stiles in.

"Remind me to send Chris Argent a fruit basket or something," said Stiles. He was stroking at Derek's hair with one hand and clutching at his hip with another. Derek chuckled, shaking his head before he went back to work worsening the hickey that Stiles' was going to have to find a way to explain to his dad.

"Stiles," said Derek, swinging a leg around Stiles' body and somehow making Stiles the little spoon.

"Yeah?" Stiles briefly thought about mutiny; he was taller than Derek, he should be the big spoon. He decided against it though, because Derek was actually pretty comfy and ridiculously warm and Stiles was already a little bit addicted to the way he had his face nestled in Stiles' neck.

"Go to sleep."

So Stiles did.


End file.
